


flour petals, sugar stitches

by ephemeralsky



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Bridal Boutique, Asexual Character, Eating Disorders, Flirting, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, author has zero knowledge on how bridal shops work, obscure French pastries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-28 15:49:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16244846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralsky/pseuds/ephemeralsky
Summary: “Thanks for coming with me,” she says, keeping her eyes trained in front of her.“It is not like I had a choice in the matter,” Andrew says, blowing out a stream of smoke through his mouth.Renee’s lips curl into a smile. “Maybe you’ll win our next sparring match and I’ll finally have to buy you ten cartons of Haagen-Dazs.”“It cannot be worse than tagging along to a bridal boutique.”“Maybe,” Renee allows, humor in her voice. “But what kind of man of honor would you be if you didn’t come with me to choose a dress?”(or: Andrew is a baker, Renee is a bride-to-be, and Neil is a dressmaker)





	flour petals, sugar stitches

**Author's Note:**

> TWs: Allusions to mental health issues (e.g. anxiety, depression), eating disorders, implied/referenced self-harm, descriptions of scars. Please let me know if you want me to add anything else.
> 
> Discarded title ideas include 'proof of the pudding', 'not a piece of cake' and 'bread and butter' lol

Andrew is ferrying a tray of orange jam choux buns from the kitchen when the bell above the entrance chimes, announcing Renee’s arrival.

Bee looks up from where she’s wiping down the counter - her twelfth time today, Andrew notes - and pushes her glasses up her nose. “Good afternoon,” she says, smiling pleasantly.

“Hello,” Renee greets back. “How are you?”

“Well, I’ve been quite occupied since I last saw you yesterday,” Bee answers, eyes crinkled at the corners. “A cat ran inside when Andrew took out the trash.”

“Oh my. I hope it didn’t get to any of the cakes,” Renee says in that cheeky way of hers.

“Andrew picked it up and sent it back outside before it could.”

Bee sends Andrew her usual bright smile, and he sends her his usual impassive look.

Renee tucks a strand of her white hair behind an ear, the pastel purple dyed at the tips flirting with the pearl earring Allison gave her for their one-year anniversary. “I hope you don’t mind me stealing Andrew for the afternoon.”

“Of course not! I can take care of the shop by myself for a while,” Bee assures. “I’m so excited for you.”

Andrew finishes plating the buns into the display case. He returns the tray to the kitchen. Hangs his apron on the hook next to the refrigerator. Dusts some flour off his black jeans. Pockets his wallet and keys. Checks that his armbands are still snug around his elbows and down to his wrists, once, twice. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Then he exhales, opens his eyes, and goes to the front of the shop, where Renee is still chatting with Bee.

“All ready to go?” Bee asks.

“As ready as I will ever be,” Andrew says, unenthusiastic.

“Have fun,” she calls out as Andrew and Renee leave the bakery, the bell ringing behind them like a knell of good fortune.

Right.

Andrew lights up a cigarette as they stroll towards the bridal salon at the end of the boulevard. He had initially wanted to drive them there, but decided against it when he realized that finding a parking spot is going to be more trouble than it’s worth.

It’s within walking distance, but he’s starting to think that driving would have been better, after all; the sun is glaring down at them relentlessly and sweat is sticking his black t-shirt to his back like gum.

Renee, on the other hand, seems unaffected by the heat, her godet skirt brushing her knees with each step she takes.

“Thanks for coming with me,” she says, keeping her eyes trained in front of her.

“It is not like I had a choice in the matter,” Andrew says, blowing out a stream of smoke through his mouth.

Renee’s lips curl into a smile. “Maybe you’ll win our next sparring match and I’ll finally have to buy you ten cartons of Haagen-Dazs.”

“It cannot be worse than tagging along to a bridal boutique.”

“Maybe,” Renee allows, humor in her voice. “But what kind of man of honor would you be if you didn’t come with me to choose a dress?”

“A pragmatic one,” he replies.

It’s all stupid, how she and Allison booked separate appointments at the boutique. It was the princess’s idea, of course, all to _preserve the element of surprise - don’t you know anything about romance, Minyard? I’m not surprised you don’t._

“Allison booked a spot for me at Twogether Forever for this Friday,” Renee told him after he was knocked onto his back on the training mat at the gym. She handed him a bottle of water before continuing with, “I’ll come by the bakery at two.”

Andrew doesn’t see why he had to be dragged into all this - doesn’t even know why he had just shrugged when asked to be Renee’s man of honor, as if it hadn’t already been bad enough that he had been commissioned to make a cake for the wedding.

He finishes the cigarette just as they arrive at the shop. Twogether Forever - a ludicrous name, in Andrew’s opinion, and he works at a bakery called ‘Donut Worry, Bee Happy’ - is quiet, with no other customers around. It provides them a sharp reprieve from the summer heat, something that Andrew is silently thankful for.

A tall man behind the reception counter whips his head up from the computer and beams at them. “Welcome to Twogether Forever!”

Andrew stops by the door.

“Andrew?” Matt says, grin jostled off his face.

“Matt,” Renee says, cordial as ever, and Matt’s grin returns, even though his baffled eyes keep darting back to Andrew.

“Renee! It’s so nice to see you. I didn’t know you were coming today.”

“Allison said she made an appointment?”

“She did, huh? Let me go check real quick.” Matt types away on the keyboard as he continues his chatter. “Dan’s out to meet one of our suppliers. We might not order from them anymore since they’re always late with their deliveries.”

“That sounds like it’s going to be a stressful meeting,” Renee remarks. “What will you do if you don’t work with them anymore?”

Matt flaps his hand in a _no-worries_ gesture. “We still have our other vendors. Plus,” he says, a twinkle in his brown eyes, “we have Neil. He makes much better dresses than any of them can.”

Renee smiles. “That’s what Allison says.”

“Oh, here we go,” Matt announces. “Allison did book you a spot under her name. And it says here that she specifically asked for -”

A crash from the other side of the boutique cuts him off.

“Uh, you guys can follow me,” he says hastily, scurrying off to the source of the commotion.

They go to a room at the back of the shop, the floor cluttered with bolts of fabric and headless mannequins like a crime scene. The curtains to a large window are drawn back to let the sunlight stream in unhindered. There’s a cutting table with a peach-colored cloth spread on top of it, right next to a pair of scissors and a plate of an unfinished chocolate eclair. It looks suspiciously like the ones Andrew made this morning.

Next to a sewing table is a small man, barefoot with the pants of his dungaree rolled up to his calves. He turns at the sound of approaching footsteps through the open door, and -

His hair burns crimson in the light, brows knitted together over eyes as blue as the summer sky, a paradox of colors. Andrew’s stomach twists like the garlic knots he made last week.

“I bumped into one of the mannequins when I tried to pull out some fabric,” the man mutters, lips pursed in agitation.

Matt chortles. “Oh, Neil. You could’ve just called me if you needed help reaching for stuff.”

Neil flings him a look so deadpan that it could rival Andrew’s. “I’m just going to buy a stepladder, thanks.”

“Okay, whatever suits you,” Matt accedes, grinning. He points to Renee over his shoulder. “Renee’s here.”

Neil’s unsettling pale eyes slide over to Renee, then to Andrew.

A chill lances down Andrew’s spine like icicles.

“Allison told me you’d be here,” Neil says, curt. “Let me clean this up. I’ll meet you outside.”

“Need any help?” Matt offers.

With a flick of his bony wrist, Neil declines. As Matt ushers them back to the front, Andrew darts one last glance at Neil, raking his eyes over the scars running across Neil’s hands and arms, burn marks and thin lashes that match the ones on his face.

Outside, Renee surveys the gowns on a row of mannequins, hands clasped behind her.

“It feels a bit strange to be here to get a wedding dress,” she confesses.

“Rather than to just pop in and bless us with your homemade cookies and general presence?” Matt teases.

“You know what I mean,” she says, a gentle reprimand.

Matt’s expression softens. “Yeah. I do.” With a glance at Andrew, he asks, “By the way, why is the guy from the bakery here? No offense,” he tells Andrew, “but I thought you never leave the kitchen unless Betsy needs you to work the register.”

Andrew doesn’t grace this with a response, staring at the far wall and furtively checking his reflection on the huge mirror to make sure there isn’t any remaining flour on his clothes and armbands.

“He’s my man of honor, remember?” Renee reminds Matt.

“Oh,” Matt says.

A long pause follows.

“ _Oh_. I thought you had meant a different Andrew when you told us that. You know, an Andrew who’s not a Minyard.” He grins again. “On that workaholic note though, Neil is pretty much the same. He would sleep in the sewing room if we let him. He’s been here for over a year and you’ve probably only met him twice or something, right?”

Renee smiles at this. “I think it’s wonderful that he’s so focused.”

Just as they finish talking about him, Neil breezes in from the back. A pink measuring tape hangs around his neck and a pair of round glasses with thick black frames slides down his nose, taking up almost half of his face and magnifying his eyes into the size of two swimming pools.

He looks ridiculous. Andrew looks at him, then away, then at him again. He still looks absolutely ridiculous.

“Do you see anything you like?” he asks Renee. “I can give you more time to look around.”

Renee skims her fingers across a few dresses, expression contemplative.

“Or do you already have something in mind?” Neil asks, head tipped to the side.

“Something simple,” Renee says, a fond, private smile on her face. “Something with flowers.”

“Okay,” Neil says, succinct. He takes a dress from the racks and drapes it over an arm, chewing on his bottom lip and furrowing his eyebrows as he chooses a couple more. Andrew crosses his arms over his chest, suddenly annoyed.

“You can try these on, if you want,” Neil tells Renee, leading her to a fitting room.

Andrew stands where he is, leaning against the wall. The phone rings from the reception desk and Matt excuses himself to answer it.

Neil reemerges, taking out a notepad and a pencil from the pocket of his navy blue dungaree. He plops down on the fancy divan in the middle of the room, head bent as he studiously writes something down. The tag of his white t-shirt sticks out at the back, brushing against a butterfly tattoo at the nape of his neck. Andrew’s annoyance spikes.

“You her guard dog or something?”

It almost catches him by surprise. Neil is still sitting with his back to Andrew, nose buried in his notepad.

“Or something,” Andrew answers helpfully.

“That doesn’t explain why you’re just standing there staring at me.”

Andrew’s heart jolts; he didn’t expect Neil to be so perceptive.

“I am not staring at you.”

Neil hums. “Just resting your gaze on me, then.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Neil turns, flashing Andrew a half-smile that’s more caustic than it is humorous. “Don’t worry. I’ve been told that it’s a little hard not to stare at -” he gestures to his face and arms “- all this.”

He thinks Andrew is looking at his scars, Andrew realizes. The realization makes him even more irritated than he already is.

Renee parts the curtains to the fitting room and walks out in one of the dresses Neil chose.

“What do you think?”

It’s definitely simple, a strapless white dress with a long skirt that puddles onto the floor. But Renee doesn’t seem convinced, so Andrew doesn’t make any comment. If she doesn’t like it, then she shouldn’t buy it - simple as that.

“Yeah,” Renee says, pinching the cross pendant on her necklace, “maybe not this one.”

Neil shrugs, taking a neutral stance, and Renee returns behind the curtains. The next one she tries on is better, with long sleeves and a flowy skirt. But -

“Too much lace,” she says, and Neil nods in agreement.

When she comes back out in the third dress, she heads straight for the mirror, a reverent expression on her face. The size isn’t quite right, but the way she carefully smooths down the skirt with her hands tells Andrew that they don’t have to waste any more time browsing for dresses.

“Do you like it?” Neil asks, standing near Renee, his notepad closed and tucked under an arm.

“I do,” she says, smiling. The skirt flares out a little, ending just under her knees. The silver floral embroidery that curls like wreaths around her shoulders and torso are elegant, subtle.

Neil ducks his head a little, mumbling, “I’m glad. I designed it.”

“I love it,” Renee tells him in earnest. “It’s beautiful.”

“I’ll need to make some adjustments,” he says, all business, a blush dusting his cheeks. “I’ll take your measurements after you change.”

“Alright,” she says, going back to the dressing room.

Left alone with Neil again, Andrew rolls his jaw before saying, “You designed these.”

Neil pokes his glasses up his nose, tucks a lock of red hair behind an ear, ducks his head again. He traces a finger over his notepad, and Andrew realizes that he was probably sketching something just now. “Only some of them.”

He seems almost embarrassed by the admission, and all Andrew can think about is how coming here is a _bad idea bad idea bad idea_.

After Renee changes out into her own clothes, Neil takes her measurements.

“I’m going to measure your bust,” he says. “May I?”

He asks _may I_ like some proper Victorian gentleman, because of course he does.

“Yes,” Renee says.

Neil asks each time he’s measuring a different part of her body, looping the tape around her waist and hips before jotting down the numbers on his notepad. Afterwards, he asks her if there are any embellishments she would like to add to or remove from the dress. He also informs her how long it will take him to finish the alterations, when she should come in for another fitting session, and an estimate of how much it will cost. She can phone the shop if she ever needs anything, and they’ll call her when the dress is done.

“Thank you, Neil,” Renee says as they’re leaving. “That was a really beautiful dress. I can’t wait to wear it.”

Neil accepts this with a nod. There’s a smile on his lips, real this time, meek like he’s not used to smiling. Andrew drags his gaze away, mooring it onto something safer, like the pot of peace lilies by the door.

“Will I see you at the wedding?” she asks. “I know it’s still months away, but I hope you’ll come. Allison told me she’ll invite you.”

“Oh.” Andrew hears the hesitation in Neil’s voice. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s still too soon to say.”

“Well, whatever you decide, I’m grateful to you.”

With a jovial goodbye from Matt, they finally leave the shop, and Andrew finally feels like he can breathe.  

*

“Good morning!”

Andrew slaps the fougasse dough onto the counter, trying to ignore Matt’s voice. It’s usually easy to tune all the customers’ voices out, but he’s slightly more hyper-aware today, on edge like somebody is going to manifest behind him and say _I see you I see you I see you_.

“Good morning,” he hears Bee reply.

They talk about mundane topics for a while - the weather, Matt and Dan’s puppy, Bee’s herb garden - before Matt asks what today’s special is.

“Chocolate religieuse. Freshly made.”

“Don’t know what they are, but they look tasty. Dan really liked the eclairs from yesterday. I should bring her in sometime.”  

“You really should. Would you like me to get these for you?”

“For sure!”

“Three, like usual?”

“Yup.”

Three. That’s the amount he buys every morning. The third one must be for Neil.

Andrew kneads into the dough harder, an ache building in his hands like heat rising in a simmering pot. The crinkle of a paper bag, the beep of the register, a cheery goodbye, the tinkle of the bell. Then, silence. Bee appears at the serving window that connects the kitchen and the front of the shop.

“I think you’re overworking the dough.”

He is. He’ll need to proof it again, wait for it to rise a little more before he can shape it and throw it into the oven. There is no point in selling bread that tastes like bricks.

He doesn’t close his eyes and he doesn’t take a deep breath. The strain in his hands and the dull throb in his head feels prominent, abrasive, a stone in his shoe that he can’t ignore.

“Andrew,” Bee says, “it’s okay. It happens sometimes.”

It’s not okay. He’s not okay, because he can’t seem to focus, and being unfocused is dangerous. People can sneak up on him, touch him where he doesn’t want them to. It’s dangerous - doesn’t Bee know this?

“Andrew,” Bee says again, “why don’t you take a break?”

He doesn’t want to take a break. They just opened the store two hours ago. The morning rush has barely ended. But being in the kitchen is starting to suffocate him, grating on his jittery nerves, so he barges out through the back door without even taking off his apron.

Things are fine most days, because he feels nothing most days.

Today isn’t like most days, because today he woke up in a cold sweat, the phantoms of a nightmare nipping at his heels. It had come out of nowhere - but that’s just how some brains work, as he has come to learn over the years.

He meanders through the street, lighting up a cigarette with shaking hands.  

The chirp of a bell, a shouted warning, the squeal of brakes. Then, an angry, “Are you crazy?”

The flame finally catches on at the end of the stick. Andrew takes a deep drag, watching the cherry glow a bright amber before he stows his lighter. He holds the smoke in, imagines the particles suffusing through his lungs, through his cells; viscous, poisonous - hopefully enough to kill him one day.

He exhales. Fiery blue eyes burn through the veil of smoke. There’s a joke there somewhere, something about how there’s no smoke without fire.

Neil’s eyebrows quirk up and down as recognition passes through his face. Then his expression morphs back into pure indignation, eyebrows wefted and cheeks flushed.

“I could’ve hit you with my bike.”

Andrew blinks. Even after the smoke dissipates into the air, Neil remains in front of him. Not a concoction of Andrew’s fractured mind, then.

He’s straddling a bicycle with a foot planted on the ground and the other on a pedal. “Some other driver could’ve hit you with their car,” he continues, furious. “Do you have a death wish?”

“I am still in one piece, am I not?” Andrew says tonelessly.

“Congratulations on not dying. Now get out of the bicycle lane and get your nicotine fix somewhere else.”

Andrew doesn’t move. Neil narrows his eyes. He’s in another white t-shirt today, but it’s matched with a brown dungaree, the color not dissimilar to the basket in front of his periwinkle bicycle.

“Problem?” he demands.

Apathetically, Andrew says, “Your fashion sense, for one.”

“You’re not exactly a fashion icon yourself,” Neil snaps. “Didn’t anybody tell you that emos went out of style in the mid-2000s?”

“Black is good for trapping heat.”

“I’m sure you need to retain a lot of heat in the middle of summer.” He sends a pointed look at Andrew’s chocolate-stained apron, a giant bumblebee embroidered on the front pocket. “And I’m guessing that helps trap all the UV rays too.” He tilts the handlebars so that his bicycle is facing away from Andrew. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work.”

Andrew takes a step forward to block him, trampling firmly on the metaphorical stone in his shoe.

“You don’t like sweets,” he says, just as his mind goes _what are you doing what are you doing what are you doing_.

It’s a non-sequitur that has Neil speechless for a few seconds, confusion wrinkling his eyebrows.

“Maybe,” he says finally, wary. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“But you keep on eating them every day.”

Neil seems astonished by the accuracy of the conjecture. “I try to. Matt brings them in every morning. How do you...” he trails off, connecting the dots himself. “You work at the bakery down the avenue.”

“On your left!” a cyclist warns a few feet behind them. Neil shuffles closer to the curb, closer to Andrew. The bicycle zips past them. Neil’s eyes follow the flow of traffic. Andrew’s eyes follow the curl of Neil’s hair around the shell of his ear.

“I need to -” Neil taps his foot against the pedal “- go to the shop.”

Andrew takes a step back onto the sidewalk. “We have other things,” he finds himself saying, hands balled into fists, just as Neil is about to ride off.

Abruptly stopping, Neil looks over his shoulder at him with a disquisitive gaze.

“Things that are not sweet,” he clarifies monotonously, feeling like a giant buffoon on the inside.

“Okay,” Neil says, sounding uncertain. “I - that’s good to know. Maybe I’ll get Matt to buy those next time.”

Robotically, Andrew nods. Robotically, Neil nods too. With another glance at Andrew, he turns away and finally resumes his journey to work.  

A clump of ash falls onto Andrew’s black Converse, scattering like dandelion seeds. His cigarette has died in the time it took for him to blunder his way through an interaction with the most interesting thing he’s come across in a while.

He tosses the stub into a trash can, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath.

It feels like there is a fundamental shift in the air, something he doesn’t recognize.

*

Matt stares at the prim white box on the counter. Andrew stares at a point over his excessively tall shoulder.

“Um, thanks,” Matt says, fishing out some money from the pocket of his slacks. Andrew gives him his change and turns away from the register, trekking back to the kitchen.

“See you tomorrow, Matt,” he hears Bee say behind him.

This morning, he made chicken and mushroom vol-au-vents. A few days before, he made seafood quiche. The week before, crab croquettes. He had personally packed them into the store’s ‘Bee Happy’ box, enough for three people to eat.

Sometimes, when he’s rolling out some dough or when he’s sprinkling icing sugar over some cupcakes, he wonders if Neil still leaves half of his food on a plate, letting it sit out for hours as he cuts out fabric and sews up dresses with his glasses slipping down his nose.

Given that his size resembles that of a broomstick, Andrew wouldn’t be surprised if he does.

Bee pops her head in through the serving hatch after she wipes down the front counter - her fifth time this morning, Andrew notes - and smiles at him.

“The croquettes you made were a big hit,” she says. “Do you know when you’ll make them again?”

Andrew shrugs, taking out the tiramisu cake that he left in the fridge to chill overnight. One of the things he likes about his job is that Bee lets him make whatever he feels like making. Some items on the menu are fixed; some come and go according to Andrew’s whims.

“Well, the others are popular too. You truly have a gift, Andrew. Everything you make is wonderful.”

“Fine words butter no parsnips,” he says, matter-of-fact.

Bee’s smile is kind and sincere. “I’m simply telling you the truth.”

He wants to slam the cake onto the sill of the hatch and say, _everything I touch turns to dust,_ but he doesn’t. Instead, he passes it over to Bee to put in the display case.

And so his days go on.

He wakes up at an ungodly hour in the morning. Takes a shower. Brushes his teeth. Eats some cereal. Drives to the bakery. Bakes. He wants to ask Matt if Neil is eating the things he makes, but he doesn’t.

Like all other mornings, the thrum of the refrigerator greets him when he enters the kitchen. He switches on the lights, pulls on his apron, and takes out a few mixing bowls, stacking them into his arm. He is measuring out some castor sugar when there is a light tap from the front of the dark shop, intermittent like the patter of a fickle summer drizzle.

Arming himself with a bread knife, he stalks to the front, leaving the lights off. Pressed against the shop windows is Neil, the orange street lamp illuminating his figure like he just stepped out of a dream. He’s rapping a finger against the glass, eyes on Andrew like he can see him moving in the shadows.

Andrew blinks, hard. Neil is still there, head tilted to the side like he’s starting to feel unsure.

Andrew lowers the knife, unlocks the front door, and steps aside to let Neil in.

Impossibly, Neil’s electric blue eyes seem to glow in the dark.

Andrew trudges back to the kitchen wordlessly, Neil’s footsteps echoing his. Under the fluorescent lights, Neil’s skin seems a little sallow, the shadows under his eyes prominent. His fine-boned features appear haggard like he hasn’t slept in days, his cheeks gaunt.

Andrew knows the look intimately; a mirror reflection of himself on days where he wakes up in a cold sweat, limbs frozen, a scream trapped in his throat.

Tufts of hair peek out from under the orange kerchief tied over Neil’s head. He’s in running attire this time, sweat pooling around the collar of his baggy grey t-shirt.

Silence presides over them like a tangible, formidable creature. Andrew’s gaze is fixated on the bead of sweat that’s rolling down the side of Neil’s face when Neil speaks.

“So you come here this early everyday?”

Andrew grunts, non-committal. Neil nods like he was given a proper answer.

“I run a circuit around this area every morning,” he says. “I pass by the bakery each time, but I’ve never actually been here before. I saw that the kitchen light was on and I thought -” He pauses, teeth worrying his bottom lip. “I’m not sure why I’m here right now.”

“You are here because I unlocked the door,” Andrew tells him blandly.

Neil’s eyes slide partially to the side, an incomplete eye roll. “Maybe I should’ve just thrown a rock through the windows.”

“Breaking and entering can result in a jail sentence or a criminal fine.”

An eyebrow arched, Neil leans against the bench where the stand mixers are. “Are you speaking from experience or do you know the punishments for all felonies off the top of your head?”

“Yes,” Andrew answers, as enlightening as always.

Neil presses his lips together like he wants to ward off a smile. Andrew finds himself feeling disappointed when Neil successfully battles it off.

“What are you making?” he asks.

“I don’t like small talk.”

“Are conversations about your job considered small talk?”

“They are not exactly as substantial as a political statement, are they?”

“Is that what you’re interested in?” Neil asks, persistent. “Politics?”

“I am not interested in anything,” Andrew says. It’s not a lie, but it somehow feels like one, the dishonesty stuffing his chest like cotton.

“That’s too bad,” Neil comments, the hint of a smirk on his perfectly shaped mouth, “because I’m interested in a number of things.”

Andrew is glad that he is reticent by nature; he can play it off as a personality trait when he is rendered speechless by the casual statement, the potential meaning underlying it.

Neil’s eyes wander around the kitchen, lithe fingers skating back and forth along the edge of the countertop. Andrew pivots on his heels to physically stop himself from staring.

From the fridge, he extracts two ramekins and a jug. From the stove, he picks up a kettle of hot water. From the cupboards, he takes out a basin. He can feel Neil’s eyes following him like a comet’s tail, burning with interest.

He pours some water into the basin and dips the ramekins into the bath, running a knife around the inner circumference of the two dishes. Then he inverts each ramekin onto two plates, tips the jug of blackberry coulis over them, adds some fresh blackberries as garnish, and slides a plate over to Neil.

Neil stares at the panna cotta like he’s never seen a dessert in his life. Andrew stares at Neil like he’s waiting for a death sentence.  

“It is not too sweet,” Andrew says, “if that is what you’re worried about.”

He had made a whole batch of them yesterday before closing up the shop, storing them in the fridge and definitely not hoping that they’re acceptably unsweet enough for Neil to eat.

“Oh, no, that’s not what I was worried about,” Neil quickly assures. His hands fly down to grip the hem of his t-shirt, his gaze dropping to the floor. “It looks good, really. It’s just - I don’t like eating in front of other people.”

His voice is hushed, weighed down by shame. “I just…can’t.”

Andrew thinks about the unfinished food on Neil’s plate, about his too-skinny arms and too-slim body. Then he goes to the pantry for some take-out boxes and starts transferring a few panna cottas into one, the coulis and blackberries packed in separate containers. He puts them in a bag and shoves it into Neil’s hands.

“You’re giving me these?” Neil asks, eyes wide with bewilderment.

Andrew ignores the tremor in his own hands as he closes Neil’s fingers around the handles.

“Take them home, give them to somebody else - do whatever you want with them. I do not care.”

Neil’s chin almost touches his collarbone as he looks down at the bag. The scars on his cheeks shift and twist against the smile forming on his lips.  “You don’t, huh?”

Andrew levels him a stony stare. “Get out of my kitchen.”

Neil doesn’t get out of his kitchen. “The ones that Matt bought for the past few weeks - the savory pastries - they’re all delicious. I enjoyed eating them.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I know you didn’t.” Neil shrugs, those frustrating lips still cuddled around a smile like gathered warmth. “I just wanted to let you know that I appreciate them. It - it takes me a while to finish them, but I like them all the same.”

Andrew swallows the knot working its way up his windpipe. Throttles the clamminess on his palms with a clench of his fists. Convinces himself that this is not going to be a problem.

“Keep those chilled,” he instructs.

“Okay,” Neil says, hugging the desserts against his chest like they’re the first precious thing he’s ever held in his hands.

*

“I didn’t know you guys do deliveries,” Matt says the first time Andrew drops by Twogether Forever with a carton of madeleines.

“So you guys _don’t_ do deliveries?” Matt inquires the third time Andrew drops by Twogether Forever with a bag of croissants.

“I guess you only deliver to us,” Matt concludes the fifth time Andrew drops by Twogether Forever with a box of palmiers.

He hasn’t caught a glimpse of Neil during these visits, which he isn’t surprised by, since it would require Neil actually leaving the sewing room for that to happen.

Sometimes, Neil stops by Donut Worry, Bee Happy after his morning run and hops onto the counter, watching Andrew change the speeds on the mixer or stir a bowl of chocolate ganache. When he can’t stand being observed any longer, Andrew will tell Neil to make himself useful by keeping an eye on the timer by the oven or by cracking a few eggs.

On one of these mornings, he casually mentions that Andrew should come into the sewing room when he stops by the bridal salon.

“That way _,_ ” he says, “I wouldn’t miss you.”

Andrew breaks a spatula. Neil lets out an ugly snort that Andrew absolutely abhors.

It’s how he occasionally finds himself in the boutique after its closing hours, sitting cross-legged on the windowsill with a book in his lap while Neil is hunched over the sewing machine, deft hands lining up white silk under the needle and foot pressing carefully onto the peddle.

Neil doesn’t let him smoke anywhere inside the shop; the book is a good enough substitute to control how fidgety his hands get at times.

Today, Andrew’s eyes are riveted to the butterfly on the back of Neil’s neck, curtained by the copper of his hair, when Neil asks, “Do you like your job?”

Andrew wedges his bookmark between two pages and closes the book he’s been pretending to read.

“It pays the bills, if that is what you want to know.”

Neil snips a thread with his trusty scissors. His chair creaks when he swivels in his seat to stare at Andrew with his big blue eyes.  

“But do you like it?”

“Do you like yours?”

Neil glares at him for the deflection, but he dutifully answers after a ruminative pause.

“I like it,” he says in that quiet way of his, like he’s scared to share a part of himself. “I like that I can create nice things, that my hands - even with all the scars - can do more than just hurt other people.”

He ducks his head, jabbing his glasses up his nose. Looking at Andrew through his bangs with a determined set to his jaw, he asks, “So? What about you? Why did you become a baker?”

Andrew looks at him for a long, long time. Then he flicks his fingers, feigning nonchalance. “You already answered it for me.”

Neil’s eyelashes sweep against his glasses as he blinks, lips fractionally parted like he’s stunned by the honesty. They’re distracting, those lips. Provocative and strawberry red, swollen from how much he chews on them.

But then again, everything about Neil is distracting.

Confidence bolstered by this bout of honesty, he forges ahead with another question.

“Do you believe in marriage?”

A beat passes. Then two.

Andrew keeps his face absolutely devoid of emotion as he answers with a concise, “No.”

Neil cocks his head to the side as if he’s dissecting the one-worded answer.

“Do you?” Andrew returns, lips curled into the skeleton of a sneer. His chest feels stuffy like it does sometimes when he’s with Neil, anxiety sticking to the walls of his innards like moss. It’s different from the old kind of fear that he’s used to, and it’s definitely different from his normal lack of feeling.  

“I don’t,” Neil says easily, which really shouldn’t be surprising, but Andrew’s mind demands to know _why not why not why not_.

“That is rather perplexing, considering your line of work.”

One strap of Neil’s red dungaree slips down his shoulder, and he hitches it up before he says, “Just because I make wedding gowns doesn’t mean I buy into the whole concept of marriage.”

“How callous of you.”

“Thank you,” Neil retorts dryly. “I could say the same thing about you though. Does making wedding cakes automatically mean you want to get married yourself?”

Andrew is quiet for a while. He looks out of the window, the backstreets bathed in a saffron hue under the setting sun.

“I am not exactly husband material.”

He slides his gaze back to find Neil frowning like he can’t fathom the very idea of Andrew being an unsuitable candidate for a spouse. He looks like he’s about to ask why Andrew would even say that, but he remains in thoughtful silence. The crinkle on his forehead disappears after a while, and Andrew guesses that he can speculate, rather accurately, some of the reasons why Andrew holds that belief.

Andrew wants to say, _there are plenty of reasons why I will remain alone until the day I die: my trust issues, intimacy issues, psychological issues - take your fucking pick_ , but he doesn’t.

Neil’s eyes dart from Andrew to the carpet, fingernails picking at the frayed edge of his chair.

“But what happens if you find somebody?” he says. “I don’t delude myself into thinking that I’ll ever find somebody who likes me enough to marry me. I mean, there’s also the issue of my sexuality, but I guess - what I’m trying to say is that I don’t believe in marriage because I can’t really comprehend its significance.”

“Your sexuality,” Andrew repeats.

“I’m asexual,” Neil elaborates simply.

Andrew accepts this with a perfunctory nod. It isn't relevant to him - not at all - but he admits that he had suspected that Neil swings his way instead, given how they have been...flirting with each other. Being asexual doesn’t necessarily preclude an interest in being romantically involved with someone, but maybe this is the world’s way of telling Andrew that whatever he is trying to pursue is futile.

“I’ve seen a lot of bad marriages,” Neil says, even more muted than before, eyes blank. “It’s only made me think about how marriage is just a symbol, and it doesn’t actually mean anything.”

“If it is just a symbol,” Andrew says, apathetic but cautious, “then what matters is the meaning that you put into it. It does not matter what other people have made it out to be.”

Neil seems to be thinking this over, nodding distractedly.

“You said that you’re not husband material, but what if there’s someone out there who wants to marry you? Would you ever consider it?” he asks, his toes curled against the plush carpet.

Andrew’s throat works compulsively.

“Maybe,” he allows, putting as much indifference into his words as possible. “Unless they overturn the law regarding same-sex marriage and make it illegal again.”

He’s fishing for a reaction by revealing his own sexuality, he knows. Neil, however, only gives a wry half-smile. Andrew wants to be disappointed, because Neil’s easy acceptance of it only means that he would be buoyed by hope. It would be better to just let yourself drown than to cling onto a flimsy raft.

“If that happens,” Neil quips, “you can just elope to another country.”

“Is that your idea of a perfect marriage?”

“No, that’s my idea of one of the ways to get hitched,” Neil says flatly. Then he puts on this fake enthusiastic look that people in customer service usually don, his voice chipper. “What’s your ideal wedding? A spring, summer, fall, or winter one? Outdoors? At the beach or in a garden? Or maybe you prefer an indoor wedding? What about the color schemes? And let’s not forget the -”

“Stop talking,” Andrew interrupts.

Neil’s face splits as a laugh flows out of him like sunbeams, warm and rich.

Andrew’s pulse leaps, and his mind goes, _oh_.

 *

One morning in autumn, Neil comes to the bakery with his face ashen and his breathing ragged. It’s cause for alarm, since he’s never looked out of breath when he’s out on his jogs. He stumbles into the kitchen, and Andrew catches him just as he sways and almost hits his head against the bench.

After settling him onto a stool, Andrew fetches him a glass of water and turns around while he drinks it. It takes a while, but Andrew patiently waits until he feels the light tap of the glass against his shoulder as an okay for him to turn around again.

He takes the glass out of Neil’s trembling fingers and dumps it in the sink. Then he clamps Neil’s chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting his head this way and that for inspection.

“I’m fine,” Neil croaks.

Andrew raises a skeptical eyebrow, and Neil sighs.

“Well, I’m fine now. Before this, I was…” he falls silent, struggling to find the words to say, but Andrew waits him out.

“I didn’t - I couldn’t eat. Yesterday. I thought - I thought I’d be fine. I’ve gone longer without eating, so I -”

“Neil,” Andrew cuts in. His other hand is clenched into a fist by his side, so he lets go of Neil, afraid that he will inadvertently hurt him.

Aside from baking, his hands have only ever known destruction, after all.

“I’m sorry,” Neil mumbles, looking down at his lap. “I’ve upset you.”

“Don’t,” Andrew warns.

“I’m just -” Neil screws his eyes shut “- so tired.”

Andrew is, too. He’s tired of waking up feeling like deadweight, he’s tired of the vitriolic things his mind spews at him, he’s tired of shivering through black, sleepless nights, and he’s tired of feeling nothing.

But he still tries. He searches for reasons to quit, but he somehow keeps finding reasons that pull him in the opposite direction instead, like the calm, continuous current in a tame river.

Neil opens his eyes, sagging against the wall.

“That conversation we had a while ago, about marriage - when I was talking about why nobody would want to be with me, I failed to mention that my issues would be the main reason why I’m going to be alone until the end of time,” Neil says, a mirthless smile on his pale lips.

“When I think I’m getting better, stuff like this happens, like it’s telling me that I’ll never be okay, that I'll never get better.”

Andrew’s right hand flies to his left arm, fingernails scratching over the black fabric of his armband; an impulse, a habit to reassure himself that his scars - his weakness - aren’t exposed.

Evenly, he says, “Bee wipes down the counter twenty times a day without fail, even when it is not dirty. It has to be twenty - no more, no less. She gets anxious otherwise.”

Confusion pinches Neil’s eyebrows together. Andrew continues, monotonous like reading lines on a telegram, fingers dug into his elbow.

“I still get nightmares about things that happened over a decade ago.”

Neil opens his mouth, then closes it, eyes focused on Andrew’s.

“You are not okay. None of us are. We might never be completely okay, but it doesn’t mean that we are not getting better.”

The confusion clears away. Neil’s eyes are the color of a sea that you can only dream of. He straightens, shrinking the distance between them.

He reaches out and touches Andrew’s knuckles, gently prodding him into uncurling his fingers. Andrew stops clawing into his own skin, lets Neil take his palm and tuck it into his warm, scarred hand.

He looks like he wants to say, _we’re going to be okay_ , but he doesn’t.

Andrew hears it anyway.

*

Andrew is ferrying a tray of lemon macarons from the kitchen when the bell above the entrance chimes, announcing a customer’s arrival.

Bee looks up from where she’s wiping down the counter - her tenth time today, Andrew notes - and pushes her glasses up her nose. “Good afternoon,” she says, smiling pleasantly.

Andrew doesn’t look up, plating the macarons into the display case until he hears a familiar voice saying, “Hello.”

It’s a remarkable feat that he doesn’t drop the tray.

Neil isn’t smiling, but his eyes are. Buttons with words like _I’m Gonna ACE This_ and _Swift Tailor NOT Taylor Swift_ are pinned to his green corduroy jacket, worn over a yellow dungaree and his regular white t-shirt. On his feet are a pair of weathered boots, which is an upgrade from the hideous sandals he always wears when he’s not barefoot or in running shoes.

He’s gained some weight, cheeks rounder and clothes more filled out.

He’s never looked as bright.

“This is a little sudden, but may I speak with Andrew for a bit?”

“Oh, of course!” Bee obliges. She leaves for the kitchen to give them some privacy, but not before sending Andrew a knowing smile.

Neil puffs a strand of his windswept hair out of his eyes as he leans his elbows on the counter. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Andrew says in his typical bored tone. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“I’m right where I want to be,” Neil answers, and Andrew almost leaves right then. “Got anything special for me today?”

“I have lemons in the back,” Andrew responds. “Sour and bitter like your mouth.”

“Is that what you think my mouth would taste like?”

He’s smiling now, sly and playful. Andrew should have never gone to the bridal shop with Renee, all those months ago.

He slides Neil an unimpressed look and finishes transferring the macarons into the display case. Neil chews on his bottom lip, drumming his fingers against the countertop.

“Do you already have something to wear for the wedding?” he blurts out.

“I don’t,” Andrew says, because planning to rent a cheap tuxedo the day before the wedding probably doesn’t count. “Why?”

Ducking his head, Neil tucks a lock of hair behind an ear. “I was thinking that I could make something for you.”

Andrew blinks. “The wedding is in two weeks,” he says, not without noting the hypocrisy.

“I can finish it before then,” Neil says confidently. Then, softly: “If you’ll let me do it, I mean.”

Andrew wonders if there was ever a possibility of him saying no.

So he says the only thing he wants to say, which is: “Yes.”

“Yes?” Neil asks.

“I am not going to repeat myself.”

Neil lets out a slow breath, his face breaking into a stupid, wide smile. “Okay.”

The scent of bread and muffins and pastries suddenly feels overwhelming. It’s dizzying, almost, because Andrew feels like he’s weightless, all his irrational fears rolling out of his head like a torrent.

A group of students enters the bakery, their rambunctious conversation jolting Andrew and Neil out of staring at each other. Bee reappears, and Neil takes it as his cue to leave.

“I’ll see you later,” he says as he exits, the bell ringing behind him like a song.

*

 _Later_ is, indeed, later in the day, after Andrew has locked the bakery up and Matt has flipped the fancy sign on the bridal shop window from OPEN to CLOSED. Andrew goes out of his way to wait until Matt and Dan have left before he makes his way inside, knowing that Neil is waiting for him.

He raps his knuckles against the door to the sewing room, because Neil prefers to be warned by the sound of knocking than by the sudden click of the door opening.

Neil is on his knees, sewing pins between his lips as he adjusts an applique lace on the dress worn by the headless mannequin in front of him. Andrew leaves the box of apricot tart that he brought with him on the cutting table and goes to the window sill, eyes trained on Neil the entire time - the movement of his nimble hands, the look of concentration on his face, the slip of his ridiculous glasses down his nose.

Speaking of the glasses - it’s good that he only wears them when he’s sewing and sketching. Andrew would be developing some sort of unhealthy fixation towards them otherwise.

Neil’s knees pop when he stands, but he hardly looks fazed by it. With his hands on his hips, he studies the dress, humming.

“What do you think?”

“I think that I wouldn’t wear it.”

“Such a shame,” Neil drawls. “The colors would compliment your complexion so well.”

“I suppose they would.”

“Jesus is weeping over the missed opportunity as we speak.”

The corner of Andrew’s lips twitches. “Renee would not be pleased to hear you using the lord’s name in vain.”

“Her future wife would be, though,” Neil replies with an amused half-smile.

Andrew tips his head to the side, considering. “How do you know Reynolds?”

Neil keeps his gaze on the dress, half-smile diminished to a neutral line. Andrew is starting to think that he wouldn’t answer when he says, “We had the same dietician.”

Andrew says, “Renee and I met in group therapy,” because it feels right that he does.

Neil acknowledges this with a nod. Then he roots around one of his many drawers, finally pulling out his pink measuring tape.

Time to get down to business, then.

Andrew stands up. Clenches and unclenches his fists. Sheds his leather jacket. Checks that his armbands are still snug around his elbows and down to his wrists, once, twice.

Neil flips his notepad open on the cutting table. The sun has set, the sky a dark shade of violet. Only the lamp by the sewing machine has been switched on. Its orange glow envelops them in a strange cocoon of safety, like the world starts in the space between them and stops just outside the room.

Stretching out the tape near Andrew’s chest, Neil quietly asks, “May I?”

Heat creeps up Andrew’s neck and coils around his ears like vines. He says, “Yes.”

“Can you lift your arms a little?”

Andrew does as asked, and Neil loops the tape around the fullest part of his chest.

Goosebumps break out over Andrew’s skin, and he barely manages to suppress a shudder.

A moment of lull follows; Neil stares at his chest, a dazed look in his huge blue eyes. Then he clears his throat and pulls away to jot down the numbers in his notepad.

“Your arms next,” he says, looking at anywhere but Andrew’s face. “May I?”

Andrew jerks his head in a nod. Neil’s touches are clinical, fleeting, but Andrew feels them burning his skin like a match to an oil spill.

After getting the over-arm shoulder width, Neil gets on his knees to start measuring the lower half of Andrew’s body.

For a second, Andrew feels like he is going to die.

Neil wraps the tape around his hips, scrawls the numbers in his records, and continues to Andrew’s legs for the inseam and outseam measurements.

Anxiety flares up in Andrew’s head like a wailing siren, but he quells the reflex to flinch. He doesn’t let anything slip into his expression, but Neil pauses to look up at him.

“Andrew? Do you want to stop?”   

Andrew shakes his head. “You can continue.”

“I’m going to run the tape from the inside of your leg, where your thigh meets your groin, down to your foot. May I?”

Andrew sucks in a deep breath, feels it rattling inside his chest like coins in a metal box. “Yes.”

Neil does a quick work of both the measurements for Andrew’s leg, before standing up and letting Andrew know that he’s done.

Andrew closes his eyes for a brief moment, and finds Neil looking at him when he opens them.

“You okay?” Neil asks, a small frown of concern etched into his features.

Andrew nods, because he really is okay, because he has no reason to fear that Neil will hurt him.

Exhaling an inaudible sigh of relief, Neil gives him a tiny smile. He turns back to the table, head bowed as he scans through his notepad. The hair curling at the base of his skull makes it look like his butterfly tattoo is moving, its wings fluttering against the column of skin.

“Why a butterfly,” Andrew says.

Neil snaps his head up, looking at Andrew over his shoulder. Rubbing his fingers over the nape of his neck, he leans against the table, eyes fixed to the floor.

“Metamorphosis,” he says. “Change.”

“Second chances,” Andrew guesses.

“Yeah,” Neil agrees quietly. His eyes flicker up to meet Andrew’s. “Why the armbands?”

The question binds the muscles in Andrew’s limbs. “Self-inflicted scars garner unnecessary pity,” he manages to say, detached.

The somber understanding in the sea of Neil’s eyes - undiluted by any form of pity - has the tautness leaching out of Andrew’s body.

“Yeah,” Neil says again, much more subdued this time. He folds his arms over his stomach, as if trying to shield his own scars, and something starts hurting in Andrew’s throat, raw and unfamiliar.

He strides forward until the tip of his boots meets the tip of Neil’s toes.

When he holds his palm out, Neil stares at him for a long, heavy moment before he unfolds his arms and hovers a hand over Andrew’s.

Andrew takes it, ears burning so hot they could light a cigarette from a mile away. “I want to kiss you -” he taps a thumb against Neil’s knuckles “- right here. Yes or no?”

He watches the ripple of Neil’s throat as he swallows. “Yes.”

Eyes falling shut, Andrew bows his head and presses his quivering lips against Neil’s hand.

It feels like the explosion of stars against his mouth.

“Can you - do it again?” Neil says, words sweet and airy like meringue.

Andrew can, and he does, planting a kiss on the scar encircling Neil’s wrist. When Neil asks for another, and another, Andrew trails his lips up his arm, lingering on each faded slash and burn mark that he comes across.

Neil’s breath stutters like it’s tripped over itself, and Andrew looks up to see his dilated pupils, black ink spilled over the surreal blue of his eyes.

Andrew straightens up, peeling away his fingers with the slowness of someone who clearly doesn’t want to let go.

Neil looks down at his feet, his cheeks an attractive shade of crimson. With his fringe falling over his eyes, he stabs his glasses up his nose. “I think I’m done for the day. We should be going home.”

Nodding in agreement, Andrew steps backwards out of his personal space and into the cold safety of his own.

Neil does a cursory clean up of his workspace, stuffing his notepad and glasses into a totebag with a picture of a cat on it. He checks the windows and doors before locking the shop up, Andrew right behind him.

A rowdy group of drunk men tumble out of the bar a few shops down the avenue, and Andrew instinctively crowds Neil against the windows. The men’s guffawing and spirited jeerings meld into the night as they stagger in the opposite direction. Andrew feels the tension bleeding out of him like a rip in a water pouch, and he backs away to find Neil giving him a slightly surprised but contemplative look.

“Did you cycle?” he asks, because Neil’s eyes are still unsettling sometimes, the way they pierce right through him like the walls he spent years building around himself are made of wet paper.

“Yeah,” Neil says, nudging his chin towards the bicycle racks. He pulls his jacket tighter over his ribcage, hitching the strap of his bag up on his shoulder when it skids down his arm. “Where did you park?”

Andrew jerks a thumb towards his car across the street.  

“Okay. I guess this is goodbye, then.” Neil deposits his bag into the front basket of his periwinkle bicycle, placing the box of apricot tart carefully on top. After he unlocks his bicycle and switches on the front and rear lights, he walks it towards Andrew.

He opens and closes his mouth several times, his usually sharp tongue dulled. Balancing his bicycle with one hand, he tentatively reaches out with the other, hooking two fingers into the pocket of Andrew’s jacket.

After chewing on his lips for a while, he murmurs, “I’m really glad I met you.”

Andrew wants to bat his hand away and say, _you’re lying you’re lying you’re lying_ , but he doesn’t.

What he says instead is, “And I, you.”

Because it feels right that he does.

Neil’s troubling mouth molds around the wisp of a smile, beautiful and dangerous like the rest of him.

“Good night, Andrew,” he says, mounting his bicycle and veering off the sidewalk and into the road.

The city buzzes around Andrew, vying for his attention with its street lights and weekend crowds, but all he can focus on is the tail lights of Neil’s bicycle; glowing red, beating like the flitting wings of a butterfly.

*

As far as weddings go, Renee and Allison’s isn’t too mind-numbing.

It’s not as eventful as Nicky’s, but it’s not as mild as Aaron’s, either. He supposes he should be grateful that he hadn’t been in their social circle yet when Dan and Matt got hitched. Being in their social circle at all is troublesome enough as it is, but now he has the added inconvenience of carrying the realization that he’s surrounded by a bunch of married lovesick fools.

It’s entertaining, at least, once the alcohol starts flowing. The open bar is probably the wedding’s single salvation, aside from Neil appearing in a tasteful, well-fitting suit and neatly coiffed hair.

“Okay, but - but this is like, the best cake I’ve had in my entire life,” Nicky is saying, with the eloquence of the thoroughly sloshed. He’s always been a talkative drunk - which is not at all different from his sober self.

“And - and let me tell you.” A hiccup. “I’ve had so many fucking cakes during my time on this bitch of an earth, so that’s saying something.” A belch, followed by a sniffle. “God, Andrew. You’re such a talented caker. I mean, baker. Talented baker. You need to - you need to make me and Erik another cake. Right this instant. I want to - to shove the entire thing into my face.”

“And what do you want the cake to say,” Andrew asks, systematically plucking each pink rose from the centerpiece on their table and dropping it onto the floor.

His cousin squints. “Do I -” He turns to Erik and whispers, “Do we want a talking cake?”

Erik, who is just as drunk, lazily grins. “I think you deserve a talking cake. You deserve everything, my love.”

“God,” Nicky blubbers, “I love you so fucking much.” He launches himself into his husband, and they both end up entangled on the floor, sloppily kissing each other.

Lips twisted in a faint grimace, Aaron pushes his chair away from the table and turns to Andrew. “I’m going to leave before they kill me with second-hand embarrassment. You should too.”

Andrew moves to stand up, but then he spots Neil weaving his way through the dancefloor and to the table. He remains in his seat, flicking his hand at his twin in a shooing gesture.

“What? You’re gonna stay here all night or something?”

“Take your wife and leave. I have some business to attend to.”

His twin gives him a disbelieving look, but then he just shakes his head. “Fine, whatever. I’ll text you before our flight tomorrow.”

Aaron and Katelyn leave just as Neil plops down onto the newly vacated seat beside Andrew. He had been sitting with Dan and Matt during the ceremony, and before Andrew could drift closer afterwards, he had been accosted by somebody called Kevin Day. Apparently, he is some famous designer with his own line and he has known Neil since they were children; he claims that their close relationship had been forged from the day they first learned how to poke the end of a thread through a needle.

Andrew hadn’t been able to deduce that from the way they had been yelling and hissing at each other in French during the start of the reception.

Neil’s hair is more tousled now, after being dragged onto the dancefloor a number of times. He’s shucked off his jacket and tie at some point but kept the waistcoat on, a few buttons on his dress shirt undone to reveal his throat and collarbones.

Andrew takes a long swig of his margarita.

“You still have your tie on,” Neil teases, and Andrew almost rolls his eyes.

Where the rest of his bespoke suit is black, his satin tie is pink, matching the azaleas suspended from the ceiling and the tip of Renee’s hair. He had stared at Neil for a solid minute after he had put it on during a fitting session. Neil had merely smiled and dipped his head over Andrew’s hand, fastening the cufflinks.

“I think my tie is lost to the ether,” Neil continues grimly, observing the crowd on the dancefloor.  

“Tragic,” Andrew comments.

“You’re not dancing?”

“I think you have done enough dancing for the both of us.”

Neil hums. “What’s it called, again? The one we had for the third course.”

“Mille feuille.”

“Mille feuille,” Neil repeats, with far better pronunciation. “I think it’s my favorite so far.”

Andrew had hoped it would be when he decided to prepare a few hundred of them for the reception. Raspberry mille feuille. He knows that raspberries are Neil’s favorite fruit.

“I stole some of the cake,” Neil says. “I’ll eat it at home and let you know how I like it.”

Andrew had made a three-tiered red velvet cake. It’s probably one of his fanciest bakes, with a generous amount of edible ornaments and a thick layer of fondant.

“Do whatever you want.”

Neil keeps watching his friends on the dancefloor, but Andrew sees the small smile that passes his mouth.

The song pouring from the speakers changes to a ballad, something cliched and sentimental, something about _love_ and _forever_ and all the other things Andrew doesn’t believe in.

“They look happy,” Neil says.

Allison and Renee, he means.

Everything about the wedding is extravagant and stylish, refined in ways that only someone with as much money as Allison can pull off, but the ceremony itself had felt genuine in its simplicity. The brides had exchanged heartfelt vows; Andrew had let the words stream into one ear and out through the other, taking up post near Renee as the esteemed man of honor.

He and Allison might never be able to have the best of relationships, but even he can see how much happiness she and Renee have given each other, how much happiness they’ll continue to share in the future. The meaning of the word has always eluded Andrew, but he’s learned to recognize it from watching other people.

“I suppose they do,” he says.

Neil’s eyes are quiet and clear when he looks at Andrew. “Still don’t believe in marriage?” he asks, a tiny quirk to his lips.

Andrew stares back, face unmoving. “One wedding is not going to change my opinion.” Or two or three or four, for that matter.

Neil shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe seeing your best friend get married has given you a revelation.” He pauses, head tipped back as he thinks. “On second thought, I think I might believe in marriage now. Think of the tax benefits.”

“Quite the romantic, aren’t you?”

“Just one of my many qualities,” Neil says, lips widening into a proper smile. His blue eyes, bright with mirth, glide to the floor by their feet then back up at Andrew. “Your cousin seems to be a romantic too.”  

Andrew is almost afraid to look, but he does anyway. Nicky and Erik have stopped making out and are now cuddling on the floor, nearly dozing off. Typical.

“Neil!” Dan bounds up to Neil’s seat, grabbing his hand and tugging him to his feet. “The brides are about to toss the bouquets. Let’s go!”

“Dan,” Neil says, laughter and incredulity woven into his voice, “you’re already married.”

“Who cares?” Allison butts in, looking put together in the ballgown wedding dress that Neil designed exclusively for her. There isn’t a single smudge to her makeup or a loose strand to her updo even though she’s been dancing and drinking and kissing her wife for most of the evening. “People just want a chance to elbow other people in the guts and catch a bunch of flowers. You should join in on the cluster fuck. Show everybody who’s boss.”

“Hear, hear,” Dan cheers. “And someone wake Hemmick up. This is his favorite part.”

Allison lifts her skirt and kicks Nicky’s leg. He jerks awake, looking immediately alert.

“We’re about to throw some fucking flowers.”

Nicky flies to his feet, hoisting himself on the back of a chair when he staggers backwards. “Y’all better watch out,” he slurs, “I’m about to snatch some wigs, in both the actual and metra - metaphorical sense.”

“Good luck, baby!” Erik calls out from the floor.

As Dan steers Neil and Nicky away, Allison turns to Andrew with a look of vague loathing. “Not joining the fray? That’s your specialty, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t realize you were interested in having a homicide occur at your wedding.”

Allison scoffs. With steel in her eyes, she thrusts a wobbly finger at his face - the only sign that she’s more than a little tipsy. “You better treat him right.”

Andrew’s gaze remains calm and empty. There is no question about who she is referring to. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll claw your eyes out and ask my beautiful wife to kick your ass.”

“Duly noted,” Andrew says blandly, sliding his gaze away in a clear dismissal.

Satisfied, Allison struts away. A whole gaggle of them - some married and others not - are already clustered on the dancefloor, anticipating the flower toss. The princess was right - people just want the excitement of trying to catch the flowers. They don’t seem to care about the meaning behind the idiotic tradition.  

The brides take up their position. Andrew sees Neil squished between an ecstatic Matt and a reluctant Kevin. Renee and Allison toss the bouquets at the same time. The crowd holds their breath. Allison’s bouquet shoots upwards and gets stuck on the flower panels on the ceiling. Renee’s bouquet soars up, then arcs back down in a graceful trajectory. Hell breaks loose in a flurry of uncoordinated limbs and ear-shattering shrieks.

It might be dumb luck. It might be that everybody else is inebriated and he’s the only one who’s not. It might be that Renee planned the whole thing because one can never be too sure when it comes to her devious side.

Whatever it is, it doesn’t change the fact that the bouquet of creamy pink roses lands perfectly into Neil’s palms, a ring sliding into a finger.

He blinks down at it, stunned. His friends clap him on the back and swaddle him in side hugs, teasing him about being next to tie the knot. His mouth tilts into the shape of a sarcastic smile as he returns their jokes with a biting remark. Amidst it all, his gaze finds Andrew’s like a compass pointing north.

The music resumes. More people begin to make their leave, trickling out into the winter night. The dancefloor is deserted except for the brides. They’re swaying slowly to the melody, arms wrapped around waists, forehead resting against forehead.

Neil returns to his side. The lace ribbon around the bouquet is almost undone, trailing across his lap when he sits. It tingles Andrew’s skin when Neil holds his hand out and offers him the roses.

“Too cheap to actually buy me flowers?”

“I didn’t know if you’d prefer flowers or flour.”

“You are not funny.”

“I thought it’d be polite to give you a bunch of roses before I ask if it’d be okay to kiss you.”

Andrew takes a deep breath. Releases it through his teeth. Doesn’t look away from Neil’s steady gaze.

“You are asexual.”

“I am,” Neil says. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to kiss you.”

“Do you, now?”

“I do.”

Andrew’s stomach twists like the braided chocolate breadsticks he made last week.

“Keep the flowers.”

“Is that a no?”

“It’s a yes,” he tells Neil.

Neil’s eyelashes flutter as he leans in midway, hands curled into fists, rose petals trembling. Andrew’s mouth is dry, tongue scraping against the roof like sandpaper. Neil feels like an oasis, and Andrew is empty, empty, empty, ravenous and quaking.  

His palm curves around the back of Neil’s neck, the butterfly tattoo nestled there like an iron brand on his skin.

He kisses him right on his maddening mouth, feels it scorching his lips.     

His mind whispers  _yes_ , and _yes_ , and _yes_.

For once, he agrees.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Me: I want to write a short and sweet bridal shop AU!  
> My brain: Make it 11k words and low-key about a bunch of issues or die.  
> Me: Ok I should make sure I finish it before starting anything else  
> My brain: Slowly lose interest in it and start ten other projects or die.
> 
> Also, do Andrew and Neil get married and become a power couple that other couples go to for banging wedding outfits and cakes? Who knows
> 
> PS: Apparently people have to start looking for a wedding dress 6 to 9 months before the actual wedding?? Y'all are crazy. 
> 
> Let me know what you think of this fic! :)
> 
> My [tumblr ](http://nakasomethingkun.tumblr.com)


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